Last night at Betsey Johnson, I was stalking the runway, trying to recognize if there were any celebrities around. A tiny blonde woman appeared and disappeared suddenly beside me; it was Kristin Chenoweth. (I think.) Then, just as I saw Johnny Weir, an entourage emerged from backstage. In its center was a pouf of hair. The hair was blue, and the bearer of the hair was being led, in a slow procession, by a phalanx of burly men in black suits, who were themselves surrounded by an outer circle of wiry, microphone- and camera-bearing practitioners of the craft of getting quotes from celebrities. The process of seating a major celebrity at a fashion show is prolonged, deliberate, and full of pomp; it’s not entirely unlike how I imagine the presentation of some new member of the royal household to the court could have gone in the 15th Century. Only with a little more pushing. In any case, it was gradually revealed that the hair belonged to Nicki Minaj. Then the show started — and the first models walked out to Nicki Minaj’s music.
In her second season since her company’s bankruptcy was averted by one Steve Madden playing the Daddy Warbucks role, Johnson stuck to the design tropes that are familiar to her customers: hot pink, corsetry, bright floral prints, puffball skirts, and that dress silhouette where the bodice is tight and the skirt is more of a tuffet.
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